Trebilcock fingered a map. "If he circles, he'll go east, up the Lynn." He traced the stream which formed the southern boundary of Moerschel. It ran toward Forbeck and the Gudbrandsdal Forest, approaching the Siege of Vorgreberg, emptying into the Spehe. As a river it wasn't much, yet it formed a barrier of sorts. An army crossing would be vulnerable.
Ragnarson joined Trebilcock. "Yeah. The hills and woods are rough in Trautwein. The roads would be easy to hold. But that don't mean he won't go that way. He's never been to Kavelin."
Haaken snorted. "You think Habibullah and Achmed were sleeping the last five years? He probably has maps better than ours."
"Yeah. Well. I agree with Michael. I'd come up the south bank of the Lynn too. So we'll get lost in the Gudbrandsdal. He should cross the Lynn at Norbury, where it runs into the Spehe. There're bridges both sides of town. We'll hit his flank while he's crowded up to cross. The woods aren't a hundred yards from the one bridge. They run right down to the banks of the Spehe."
The arguments continued. Ragnar returned, bringing Mocker.
"We're fussing too much," Bragi declared later that evening. "We can't plan to the last arrow. We shouldn't. We'd get too set on a plan. We'd try sticking to it no matter what. Sleep will do usmore good. Mocker, the room you and Nepanthe used before should be empty. Make yourself to home."
Jarl Ahring arrived, drew Haaken aside. A moment later they approached Ragnarson. "Sir," said Ahring, his steely eyes evasive.
"Well?"
"A problem."
"What?"
"One of my sergeants wants to talk to you. A personal matter."
"Important enough that I should see him?"
"I think so," Haaken said.
"All right. Bring him up."
"I warned you," Haaken muttered as Ahring departed.
"Oh-oh. Ragnar and that girl...."
"She's pregnant."
"Get Ragnar back here. He know?"
"Probably. I expect he made time to see her."
Sergeant Simenson was a tough buzzard Bragi wouldn't have wanted to face in a fracas. His scars showed he had been in the thick of it throughout his service, which had begun before Ragnarson's appearance in Kavelin. Nevertheless, he was as nervous as a child asked to explain a broken vase.
Haaken brought Ragnar. Ragnar nearly panicked when he saw Simenson.
Bragi growled, "Boy, you've been aping a man. Let's see if you can be one. You and the sergeant have some talking to do. Do it. I'll just listen-till somebody acts like an ass. Then I'll crack heads." Simenson he admonished, "It's too late to change anything. So confine yourselves to the future. Sergeant, did you talk to your daughter?"
Simenson nodded. He was angry, but was a good father, mainly worried about his daughter's welfare.
Ragnarson exited that confrontation admiring Ragnar. His son hadn't tried weaseling. He was truly enamored. He got down to cases and worked out a marriage agreement. Bragi couldn't have handled it as well himself. He hadn't with Fiana.
That was that. Except that the story leaked, and eventually won support for Ragnarson's Regency. Prataxis-generated tales showed Bragi as incorruptible. He wouldn't bend to benefit his own son.
It was late when he retired, a return to the field awaiting him beyond the dawn. He fell asleep hoping his men wouldn't waste themselves drinking and skirt-chasing, and knowing the hope vain.
Something wakened him. It wasn't a sound. The intruder moved with the stealth of a cat.
Dawn would soon break. The slightest of grey lights crept through the window.
He sensed rather than saw the blow, rolled away. The knife ripped through the bearksins and slashed his back, sliding over ribs and spine. He bellowed, pulled the covers with him to the floor.
The assassin pitched onto the bed.
Ragnarson staggered to his feet. Warm blood seeped down his back. He whirled the bearskins into the killer's face, wrapped him in his arms, bore him off the far side of the bed.
He was a short man, heavy, yet agile as a monkey. His knee found Bragi's groin as they hit the floor. Bragi grunted and clung, smashed the man's knife hand against the bed post. The blade skittered under a wardrobe.
The assassin kicked, gouged, bit. So did Ragnarson, and yelled when he could.
His antagonist was tough, skilled, and desperate. He began getting the best of it. Bragi grew faint. His wound was bleeding badly.
Where the hell were the guards. Where was Haaken?
He stopped blocking blows, concentrated on getting an unbreakable hold. He managed to get behind the assassin and slip an arm around the man's throat. He forced his hand up behind his own head. He arched his back and pulled with his head.
"Now I've got you," he growled.
It was a vicious hold. Applied suddenly, to an unsuspecting victim, it could break a man's neck.
The assassin kicked savagely, writhed like an eel out of water. He slapped and pounded with his free hand. Bragi held on. The assassin produced another dagger, scarred Ragnarson's side repeatedly.
Where the hell was Haaken? And Varthlokkur? Or anybody?
The murderer's struggles weakened.
That, Bragi suspected, was feigned.
Slowly he dragged the man upright....
The assassin exploded, confessing his fakery.
Enough, Bragi thought. He leaned forward till the man was nearly able to toss him, then snapped back with all the strength and leverage he could apply.
He felt the neck go through his forearm and cheek. He heard the crunch.
The door burst inward. Haaken, Varthlokkur, and several soldiers charged in. Torchlight flooded the room. Bragi let the would-be murderer slide to the floor.
"Oh, my gods, my gods." He dropped to his bed, wounds forgotten, tears welling.
"He's alive," said Varthlokkur, touching the pulse in Mocker's throat.
"Get Wachtel!" Bragi ordered.
Varthlokkur rose, shedding tears of his own. "Stretch out," he told Ragnarson. "Let me stop that bleeding. Come on! Move!"
Ragnarson moved. There was no resisting the wizard's anger.
"Why?" He groaned as Varthlokkur spread the cut across his back.
"This will lay you up for a while. Wachtel will use a mile of thread. Cut to the bone. Side, too."
"Why, damnit? He was my friend."
"Maybe because they have his son." The wizard's examina-tion wasn't gentle. "I had a son once...."
"Damnit, man, don't open me up."
"... but I think he died in an alley in Throyes. The Curse of the Golmunes again. But for Ethrian he wouldn't be lying there now."
Wachtel bustled in. He checked Mocker's pulse, dug in his bag, produced a bottle, soaked a ball of wool, told Haaken, "Hold this under his nose." He turned to Bragi.
"Get hot water. Have to clean him before I sew." He poked and probed. "You'll be all right. A few stitches, a few weeks in bed. It'll be tender for a while, Marshall."
"What about Mocker,?"
"Neck's broken. But he's still alive. Probably be better off dead."
"How come?"
"I can't help him. No one could. I could only keep him alive."
While Wachtel washed, stitched, and bandaged Bragi, Varthlokkur reexamined Mocker carefully. Finally, he ven-tured, "He won't recover. He'll stay a vegetable. And I don't think you'll keep him that healthy long. You'll have trouble feeding him without severing his spinal cord." His tone betrayed his anguish, his despair.
Wachtel also reexamined Mocker. He could neither add to nor dispute Varthlokkur's prognosis.
"He'd be better off if we finish him," the wizard said. His eyes were moist. His voice quavered.
Bragi, the doctor, and Haaken exchanged looks. Ragnarson couldn't think straight. Crazy notions kept hurtling through his mind....
Mocker twitched. Weird noises gurgled from his throat. Wachtel soaked another ball of wool, knelt.
The others exchanged glances again.